A Man Met in Passing
by EvenAtMyDarkest
Summary: "He knows that now there is no going back. He knows what he knew before, when Boris first forced his blood into him, before Samuel told him about the cure, but now, it's worse. Because he had some modicum of hope, of a choice, and he's failed. His life… is over." 6x05 "Live Free or Twi-Hard" AU/alternate ending. Oneshot. The vamps are too much for Dean, and they take him away.


_Warning: this doesn't have a happy ending. Also, whoops, slipped and turned it into an overdrawn whump fest. Apologies. Not gonna lie, kind of wish I hadn't written this, but oh well… I did, so might as well put it on up. Hopefully you can get some morbid kind of enjoyment out of it. Oh, and I don't own Supernatural._

* * *

Afterwards, Dean has no idea what happened to Sam and Samuel. Boris tells him that they died painfully, and he chuckles as he says it. But Dean knows better than to trust anything he tells him, at least without proof. And there is none. But with their absence… he just doesn't know. Surely they came in guns blazing to save him, and there were two possible outcomes to such a skirmish: victory, or death. And it wasn't victory.

They pack up and move to a new location. Dean doesn't know where, doesn't even know how long the journey takes. He's shot full of dead man's blood—the very same syringe he brought in to subdue Boris—and slipping in and out of lucidity and consciousness, and even the line between those is blurred. He prefers the lack of either; the dull but deep pain introduced by the blood turns his limbs to lead and maybe even stops his heart. It sure feels like it, at least.

Finally they arrive, at a building eerily similar to the last one. And he's carried in by under his arms, wrists and ankles bound, after spending what felt like days in the back of a truck. He's so weak.

He's hungry.

Or thirsty. Doesn't even matter. It's not quite like _real_ hunger or thirst. It's like both at the same time, but monstrous. A need, a pain, deep within him, clawing, hacking, scratching. At who he is. At _what_ he is. Demanding to be sated.

He tries to hold on. And when they throw him into a cage with an IV rack with four bags of blood hanging from it, he automatically reaches out for them.

But he stops.

He even steps back.

It's the hardest thing he's ever done.

And then they are flooding the cage.

More cronies than he was even aware were present. One holds his arms, another his legs. One covers his nose till he has to gasp for air through his mouth. And Boris himself tears open one of the bags, smiles a toothy smile, and pours it between Dean's parted lips.

It's instant relief, but at the same time, the hunger immediately seems to double in strength. He wants to spit it out, but his brand new predatory instincts are so much stronger than that want, and he gulps the blood down with all the greed and desperation of an animal dying of thirst. Which is, in essence, exactly what he's become.

In the back of his mind, he knows what this means for him. He knows that now there is no going back. He knows what he knew before, when Boris first forced his blood into him, before Samuel told him about the cure, but now, it's worse. Because he had some modicum of hope, of a _choice_, and he's failed. His life… is over.

In the following days, he comes to wish with an ardent longing for that to truly be.

"It would be smartest, safest, just to cut your pretty pretty head off," Boris says to him on the first day, standing just outside his cage, leaning against the bars and smiling at him. "But surely that's what you want. We can control you, and find a use for you. At the very least, make an example of you."

Surely he'll never be let within a mile of any real weaponry, he thinks idly, scratching absently at his arm. Is self-decapitation even possible? What kind of maneuver would that require?

"And say you do get out. Say you find a way to do _something._ Say you manage to kill me—say you even destroy this entire base of operations." Boris shakes his head slightly, still smiling contentedly. "Wouldn't do squat. Not really. This is so, so much bigger than me, than what you see here. So what the hell? I'm gonna have some fun with you."

Dean stares at a loose screw in the corner of his cage. If he only had… a pocketknife, even. He could get the job done, given enough time. He's been to hell. How bad could it be?

He blinks, realizing Boris has disappeared, and there's a new bag of blood sitting on the floor just inside the bars. He dives for it, grabbing it up and ripping into it without hesitation.

* * *

Sometimes he licks at the floor of his cage, at the congealed remains of what he's spilled while feeding. He's never felt lower. Most of what he actually gets is dirt.

The cage isn't furnished at all; other than himself, the only things in it are two thin, dirty blankets thrown haphazardly on the floor. Both bear several blood stains of varying age. They are no help when he tries to sleep, but slept he has. After a point, there's no more running from exhaustion.

It's been three days. One since his last top-off. He doesn't know what Boris plans to do with him. The only jobs around here seem to be drawing in new vamps via bad poetry on the Internet, actually going out to fetch the goods, and "care" of the prisoners. Whatever Boris eventually demands of him, Dean's ready to tell him to stick it where the sun doesn't shine.

Sometimes he fantasizes about what he'd do to him if he could. About what he _will_ do to him, when he can. When his family manages to track down this operation and bust him out of here. He'd hope against hope to go down in the brawl that would surely ensue, but before that, he needs to take down Boris. He needs to make him beg for his life, and then free his ugly-ass head from his broad shoulders.

But mostly, Dean thinks about the blood.

He doesn't want to. Of course not. But it feels like he hasn't eaten in a week. A measley twenty-four hours without it and he's scraping what really amounts to crusty days-old scabs stuck to the floor. He can't get it out of his mind. He tries to sleep, and maybe he'll succeed for twenty minutes or so, but he'll always wake up in a cold sweat with his own blood rushing around his head. As the hours crawl by, he slowly feels more and more that if he can't feed again, soon, _immediately_, he's going to die.

He wishes it were true.

* * *

His eyes crack open in the gloom before dawn on the fourth day, and something feels different.

There are other vampires in cages across the room. New fangs, former moody teenage girls who found the wrong online boyfriend and had their lives worse than destroyed because of it. It's obvious simply by the fact that some of them are already awake that they feel it too. They appear restless. Even the ones still sleeping are tossing and turning.

Something's coming. He doesn't know what, but there's one thing he's pretty sure of: he wouldn't be feeling this way if he were still human.

It frightens him.

He's still hungry, and he spends the next hour pacing around the tiny area he can call his own, holding his head, contemplating more seriously with every passing second just beating it against the wall. And with this unexplained anticipation hanging over him, this apprehension that he can't even focus on because of the hunger… it's pulling him in too many directions at once and it feels like he's about to fall to pieces. The girls across the way don't seem as affected anymore; they're too absorbed in feeding. He suspects he'd be the same way, if he could be.

Finally, something breaks up the monotony. The door opens. Not his cage door, but the proper door, the one that Boris uses, the one that leads into this large storeroom. But the person who steps inside is not Boris.

His skin is dark, his bald head uncovered, his manner relaxed, as he traces his fingers lightly across the top of his old cane, his eyes sweeping the room. His garb is as black as any, and it hangs over him, obscuring his frame. But Dean can see an old darkness somewhere inside him that chills him to the bone.

This isn't the first time Dean has seen him. Not quite. When all the vamps in that den had a sort of collective vision… and he saw that stained glass, those two little girls… and the man who fed them blood.

This is him. He's suddenly sure of it.

The first vampire.

The man's eyes fall on him, and Dean feels like shrinking into himself. The first vampire, the alpha, the reason that he is what he is… is looking at him. It shouldn't feel so… so… overwhelming, the slowly dying logical part of his brain tells him. But it does. He finds himself cowering on his knees, watching every movement of the man's approach—_approach_, he's coming _closer_—through his eyelashes as he tilts his head forward, face turned towards the floor.

Immaculately polished shoes stop mere feet in front of him, and he wraps his arms around himself, shivering, tensing up every muscle in his body, just waiting for the penny to drop.

"Dean Winchester," comes a deep voice from above him, and he gasps. Some distant part of him that still clings to his humanity as if it's a recoverable thing burns with shame, but it doesn't matter right now. This creature before him is so ancient and powerful it… it… What does it want with him?

"Look at me," the same voice commands, and he does, not a thought in his mind of disobeying. He meets those old eyes looking down on him, a strange glimmer of warmth hidden in their depths, and he feels so small.

After regarding him for what feels like an eternity, the man smiles. "I must say, it is a pleasure to meet you," he greets, and Dean would almost think he hears genuine tenderness in his voice.

Dean wants to ask what he's doing here. Why he apparently has come all this way, from wherever he was, just to see Dean. But he can't bring himself to speak.

The man stares into Dean's eyes, and any desire to look away flees from him. Because there's no point—he can't move. His bones are frozen in place, his muscles at a standstill. He feels like he's drowning in that ancient gaze.

The man reaches out, slowly, and cups his chin in his hand. His skin is ice cold, and Dean flinches, just barely. His fingernails are long, almost clawlike, and they trace his jawline, his eyes examining him closely, lips pursed in thoughtfulness.

Finally, he drops his hand back down to his side, and Dean feels himself drooping, letting loose much of the tension that had filled every corner of his body. The man smiles again. "Welcome to our ranks, my child," he says warmly.

And finally, Dean finds it in himself to speak, if only to ask, "Why are you here?" His voice comes out as a croak; he doesn't recall the last time he spoke out loud.

The man raises a brow. "Well, to meet you, Dean," he replies. "To see you. I have plans for you, child. Big things are coming, and I would like to congratulate you for being a part of them."

"What?" he dares to whisper. "What are you planning?"

The man tilts his head, regarding him. "Don't _worry_," he says reassuringly. "You'll be ready."

Too many otherworldly nightmares have made plans for him. He's beyond sick of it. He's… exhausted. But no witty barb or brazen protest even enters his brain, let alone makes it out of his mouth.

"You seem very weak," the man comments. "Very… faint. How long since you last fed?"

Dean's fingers curl in revulsion at what he knows must be coming, but he whispers, "T… two days."

The man whistles lowly, and turns to look behind him. For the first time, Dean notices Boris standing there. It is likely he entered in with the alpha, but Dean never even looked away from the man—the _creature_—standing before him now. Other than at the floor directly in front of him, and then only briefly. Boris's eyes widen a fraction, and for a moment he is obviously afraid of any possible repercussions, though he also appears confused as to why he would receive any.

As it is, their visitor only gestures slightly towards the cage and turns back to Dean, folding his hands behind his back.

And then Boris is unlocking the cage, and Dean automatically braces his hands against the floor, ready to get up and run or defend himself or whatever he has to do, but Boris only grabs him under the arms and pulls him to his feet, and he realizes he can do nothing to resist. He doesn't recall the last time he felt this frail.

And he's being dragged out of the cage, across the floor, into the hallway that leads into the huge room he's spent the last four days in. He quickly grows irritated by his limp legs banging into corners and tries to get himself on his feet, but he's too weak and they're moving too fast.

They throw him to the floor, and he scrambles ungracefully to his knees like a newborn fawn. The room is bleak, made of concrete, walls and floor covered with years-old stains. As he glances around, he sees that he is not alone.

Two frightened faces turn towards him. Girls who can't be any older than twenty-three. Their hair is frizzy, their nails chipped. They're dressed for a night on the town.

All he can hear is the blood rushing through their veins, roaring like a tidal wave directly into his ears. Their hearts beating so fast, pumping it through their bodies.

Suddenly, he has some strength after all.

"_No!_" he screams, throwing himself against the closing door, but he's too late, and he beats against it with the entirety of his greatly diminished strength, but it's solid steel and it doesn't budge.

Their frightened breathing, their whimpers, somehow reach him through the sound of their blood, and he turns, flipping himself over but still pressing his whole body against the door. They, in turn, are pressed flat against the opposite wall.

He knows he looks like a monster. Because he is. Nobody has ever looked at him with so much fear. He can feel his fangs sliding into place involuntarily.

"When the door opens, run," he manages, voice strangled. They still look petrified, but they glance at each other, and he knows they've understood.

So he turns and begins beating his head against the concrete wall next to the door.

Pain explodes behind his eyes. Oh God, it hurts. He feels his own blood dripping down his forehead, but it's never called to him, and he knows it wouldn't do a thing to satisfy him. He keeps going. White turns to black, and he slips away.

* * *

Waking up again is a long, stuttering process. His head feels like it's going to split open. It's the second or third time that he meanders back into consciousness that he actually remembers what happened, and he's disappointed—though not surprised—that he even woke up.

Hours have passed. He can tell he's still not fed, and eventually that fact keeps him awake. Even if he doesn't move yet. He's just sprawled on his back on the floor of his cage, staring up at the rusty patches on its ceiling.

A long squeak reaches his ears. He turns his head slightly, not moving beyond that. Boris stands inside the cage, locking it from the inside, but there's no need. Dean can barely move. He doesn't even have the energy to be surprised by Boris's continual personal involvement in Dean's… progress? Definitely not the right word.

He's holding a bag of blood, and Dean has mixed feelings about that. He approaches Dean, movements unguarded, careless. He kneels beside his head, taking it into his lap. Dean doesn't resist. What's the point.

He even allows himself to enjoy a little bit of relief as the metallic taste of the blood finds his tongue.

The words "Our father was none too pleased about our treatment of you" reach Dean through a haze as he drinks. Boris goes on, "But then he saw how you reacted to the gift we offered you. You're stronger, less malleable, than he thought. Not much point in a soldier with a death wish. But he's unwilling to simply kill you—seems convinced you could be useful. So, though you're a very ungrateful house guest, he's asked that we keep you around. Which basically means things will continue the way they have been. Afraid you blew your chance with him. Only giving you this now because you need it after hurting yourself so bad. Hey, slow down, there."

Dean's already halfway through the bag, and Boris takes it from him for a few seconds. He gropes for it, movements neither forceful nor adroit, but he can already feel some life returning to him.

Soon enough Boris allows him to continue, in silence now. Once he's reached the bottom of the bag, Dean drops it, going boneless again and closing his eyes. He feels Boris lower his upper body back down to the floor, and he hears him start towards the cage door.

Suddenly remembering himself, just as the door squeaks shut Dean's eyes fly open and he sits up, just a little too quickly. Holding his head, he fixes wide eyes on Boris and says only, voice hoarse, "The girls?"

The look Boris gives him is almost one of pity. "You didn't really think for a second we could let them leave, did you?"

No… No, he supposes he shouldn't have.

"It was quick," Boris offers as a last reassurance before he walks away, somehow leaving Dean with even less gumption to move than before.

* * *

Before, when he was worried about Sam, when he wanted answers, he turned to prayer. And when it failed him utterly, he turned right back away. But… desperate times.

"I need some help," he breathes, barely making any noise at all. "Cas… Please."

He waits. There is no response. He doesn't know what he expected.

"I don't know where I am," he goes on, voice stalling. It would be shaking if he were actually speaking at anything close to a normal volume. "I… My dreams have been… weird. Just… blood, and death, and our… our father. Mine, I guess. The alpha. I can't stop seeing him. He came here, today. Or yesterday, I can't tell anymore. Said he had… plans for me. Those plans might've changed, but… I don't know, but Cas, it's nothing good." He shakes his head. "He might be keeping you from coming to me in my dreams. Blocking you out somehow. I don't know. But… keep trying. 'Cause I'm all out of other ideas." He chokes on the last few words, and he ducks his head down, scrunching up his face, clawing at his hair. Trying to hold in the sobs that are bubbling so close to the surface, but the tears run down through the filth on his cheeks all the same. "Cas… you gotta get me out. You gotta put me down. Find me. End me. I'm begging you."

* * *

He swears they feed him even less frequently now than they did before.

Every time he sees one of the free vamps sauntering by the cages, hot anger burns at his core—and shamefully, he's not sure what makes him more angry: when they feed him, or when they don't. He never actually speaks to them, but he always considers it. Considers begging. But he won't. Not for as long as he has even a modicum of self-control left.

At least he's not a demon, he sometimes thinks. This may be hell, but it's not… _hell_. He's not sure where he'll go when he dies. He never saw any monsters when he was doing his time, except the black and sometimes white or red-eyed variety. Do they even have souls? Does he have one, anymore?

Questions he never cared to even ask, much less answer, before.

Not a day goes by that he doesn't remember being human, but with each passing day that reality does seem further and further removed. Often he finds himself wishing he could just forget. Wouldn't that be for the best? But then, vampirism would be much less of a curse. Still… maybe one day, he'll be able to see himself simply as an animal, willing to kill to feed itself. He'll forget he was ever anything more.

He supposes if there's anything left to live and hope for, that would be it.

* * *

He thinks of Ben and Lisa. The last time he saw them, he pushed the poor kid into the wall and completely freaked them both out. Now he's up and vanished. Surely Sam has told them what happened by now. He hopes that, knowing this, they can find it in themselves to forgive him. He hopes that they'll remember him well. He wishes he could just see them one last time… but then, that's what _that_ debacle was supposed to be, and just look how it turned out. No, he's screwed with their lives enough. They can go on largely unscathed by him. The least he can do in return for their kindness is die far away from them.

He thinks of Lenore, sometimes. Not his first vamp, but the first one he encountered who really made him think about the fact that all vampires used to be human. She was strong. She'd been without human blood for who knew how long. And hell… Dean would feed on cows if he could. Of course he would. And he'd like to think he, too, would be strong enough to keep it up. But it's not like he's got a menu. It's not like he's got any degree of freedom, any choice. His instincts won't let him _not_ feed, and his captors won't give him access to any blood other than that of humans. He simply doesn't have the _resources_ to be like Lenore. And it shouldn't tear him up so much, but it does.

Most of all, he thinks of Sam. He must be losing his mind over Dean's absence. Hopefully he hasn't done anything suicidally stupid in his attempts to recover him. Although… Sam certainly has seemed… sharper since he got back. Almost _too_ sharp. Too… calculating. Dean's still not quite convinced there's not something wrong with him. But hell… right now, there's at least as much wrong with Dean.

Sam will be okay. If there were a way for Dean to go on in his eternal role as Sam's protector, he would.

But the thing he's become does more harm than good with every second he continues to draw breath.

Sam will be okay. He has to be.

And this is all assuming that Boris was, in fact, lying when he said that he was dead.

* * *

Weeks pass.

Months, maybe.

It's so difficult to keep track when he looks forward less to the sunrise than he does to his next fix. They don't feed him every day, and when they do, it's not at any consistent time. Sometimes, when he sees a vamp approaching with a pouch of blood, he vaguely considers having another go at bashing his own head in. But he recoils at the thought of enduring that kind of pain again, especially when he knows it will make no difference at all.

He isn't let out of the cage for the duration. Not once. Not since those girls. He usually doesn't even have the energy to pace around, and his muscles atrophy as he spends most of his days barely moving. When he has the presence of mind to do so, he'll stand up and do some stretches, but for the most part he's as still as a dead man. When he bothers to look down at himself, he cringes, every damn time. He looks positively skeletal—pale as death, his skin hanging from his bones. His hair has started to get into his eyes, but he has no way to cut it.

He can barely stand his own smell after so long. He pisses outside the cage, and fortunately they don't seem to care about that, but slowly grime, even dust, accumulates on his skin. He frequently spills at least a few drops when feeding, and his shirt—the same black T-shirt he was turned in—has been stained more times than he can count. His jeans too. His jacket is always wadded up in the corner of the cell with his boots—he uses it as a pillow. There's at least a few drops of blood on everything in here, at all times. Sure, he reeks of the classic stuff like body odor too, but the blood is the worst, because it's also the best. When he can't lick any more out of the fabric of his clothes, he'll just press it to his nose and draw in its scent.

But there's more than just the filth and the physical deterioration that comes with being stuck in the same forty-square-foot area for weeks on end.

He's not sure how long it's been when he wakes up in the middle of the day and sees Sammy sitting across from him. Not the brother he was taken from—but the little boy he watched over when he was a tween. Dean stares at him, mouth open, trying to process what he's seeing, and why his blood isn't calling out to him.

"Dean?" Sam says, sounding worried. "You look terrible. Are you okay?"

Dean closes his eyes. This isn't real. Of course. He's finally losing it.

About time.

He opens his eyes and finds Sam still there, gazing at him with worry in his big ol' puppy dog eyes. "Not so much," Dean croaks. He doesn't remember the last time he spoke, and considers it a minor victory simply to have been able to push the short answer out. He clears his throat, swallows several times, and manages to continue, "Truth is I'm in pretty dire straits, kiddo. But… but I don't want you to worry, okay? It'll all work out in the end."

"How?" asks Sam.

Dean finally sits fully up, though painfully—he hasn't done so in almost two days. He reaches out towards Sam, but his hands stop short, and he drops them into his lap. "I'm gonna get out of here. And I'm gonna find a way to never hurt anyone again."

Sam inclines his head, looking, if anything, even more concerned. "You're a monster now, aren't you? Dad says… Dad says all monsters gotta be put down. No exceptions. You say that, too. But… but I need you."

Dammit. He doesn't know what to say. There's no way to make this better. "Sammy," he says, voice hoarse, "sometimes we gotta do things we don't want to do. Sometimes we gotta lose things we don't want to lose. I never want to leave you, but… but I have to. But I know you'll be okay. You're strong. Tough as nails. Not as tough as me, of course."

Sam giggles. It's the most beautiful thing Dean has seen in he can't remember how long.

"But you're gonna be fine. Just… don't forget what Dad taught you. And don't forget what I taught you."

Sam nods, tears trembling in his large eyes.

Then Dean blinks, just once. And Sam is gone.

* * *

Sometimes it's little Sam. Sometimes it's adult Sam. Sometimes it's Cas, or Dad, or Mom. Sometimes it's Lisa or Ben, or Bobby, or any of a random assortment of people he's encountered in his years of hunting.

Sometimes he engages in conversation. Sometimes he refuses. Sometimes he remembers that the people he's speaking to aren't real.

Sometimes he doesn't.

A couple of the vampires that regularly feed him have mocked him for it. Asked him if he's gotten any visitors today. He wonders if he's ever hallucinated a feeding. He doubts it; he's not sure his mind is powerful enough to replicate the sensation of blood sliding down his throat.

Sometimes he would swear he's in a different place entirely. Suddenly jerks to awareness to find himself in a motel room with Sam, or on a hunt, or back in Lawrence when he was four years old. He's not sure whether he usually sees these things when he's awake or asleep, but there's not really an appreciable difference anymore, anyway.

One night he's in the middle of a dead sleep when surroundings suddenly flare up in all directions—a world of darkness, with only one thing vaguely illuminated—a cage. But not his cage. There's a man seated inside, the picture of dignity despite his imprisonment. Dean knows him.

He's the only real visitor he's gotten in the time he's spent here.

The first vampire.

He doesn't know what to make of what he's seeing. Normally he just appears in Dean's cage and talks to him direct. Now, he just stares into Dean's eyes from behind his own bars, and Dean hears his voice like an echo in his head: _Find me._

The vision fades in time, and Dean is left with a vague sense of foreboding aching in his chest.

* * *

The following day, he's in the middle of trying to decide whether to acknowledge the ghost of Jo standing in the corner of the cage when the door is suddenly flung open, dissipating her into mist. Boris is standing there, his eyes burning. Dean just blinks, staring at the door standing open, trying to process what that means. He's propped up with his back against the opposite wall, and he doesn't move a muscle.

Boris drags him, and his frail body moves easily. Before he knows it they're in a concrete room, similar to the one where he saw those girls, in fact…

Boris shuts the door behind him and releases him roughly, and as he lies there he sees the blood stains on the wall.

Oh. It's the same one.

Boris sits him up, propping him right against the door, and now he can see his newest offering—a kid. A boy of no more than twelve, bound and gagged across the room, lying on the floor, blue eyes wide with terror.

"Please," Dean whispers, feeling a tear streak through the filth on his cheek.

"It doesn't have to go down like this," says Boris softly, intensely, and for the first time Dean sees his expression—he's serious. Resolute. Something's happened.

"Okay," Dean says hoarsely. "What do you want?"

Boris gets up close. Dean can feel his breath on his ear. "Tell me where he is."

He blinks. He has to conserve the tiny amount of strength he has, so he holds off on asking for clarification, hoping Boris will offer it unprompted.

Fortunately, it works out that way. "Our father," he hisses. "He's been captured. By hunters. You saw it—we all saw it. Tell me where they would've taken him, and the boy is free."

He has to know that odds are Dean knows nothing useful. But he's acting authoritative to give Dean less room to lie.

He may not know, though, that as weak as Dean is, he's come no closer to willingness to sell out his family.

"Here's what you gotta do, Boris," he says with as much strength behind his voice as he can muster, knowing he's gotta waste it to the point where he couldn't hurt this kid if he tried, "find somewhere nice and private, and, uh… screw yourself."

Boris smiles, showing a forest of teeth like tiny swords. He grasps the back of Dean's neck and turns him towards the kid across the room, kicking his feet helplessly. He's wearing scuffed grey sneakers and a green and yellow school hoodie reading "Northville Sunbears." His cheek is scratched up and he has startlingly blue eyes, wide open and trained on Dean. "I will hold your head to his neck," Boris whispers. "I'll make the puncture if I have to. You won't need to do a thing, except drink. And you and I both know you're more than capable of that."

Dean closes his eyes. "I don't know anything. I really don't. I haven't been in contact with them."

"Yeah, we pretty much got that," Boris smirks. "But you know about the safehouses they must have, surely."

He does. And he'd love to assume that Sam and Samuel are more than a match for any amount of vamps Boris could send their way, even surprised.

But he can't get Sam killed. Protecting Sam is the only thing left that he can do. The only part of his identity that hasn't been scraped away.

He blinks, and Sam is there.

It's not the Sam he last saw—this Sam is a few years behind them, maybe about twenty-four years old. His shaggy hair still covers his forehead and the crease in his forehead hasn't quite taken root yet. He's standing right in front of him, and Dean's attention is immediately and irrevocably drawn to him and away from Boris, who remains at his side, but sort of fades away with Sam's appearance.

"Sammy," he whispers.

Sam looks him over with a deep sadness in his eyes. Near the beginning, Dean sometimes felt a burning shame at what he knew his visitors must be seeing—the dirt caked on his skin, his bloodshot eyes, the permanent red stains around his mouth… but that faded after a while. He doesn't think about it too much anymore, just letting himself be happy to see Sam, or Bobby, or whoever it is who's come to stand before him. "I never wanted this, Dean," Sam says softly.

"What are you talking about? This isn't your fault."

Sam shakes his head. "I mean I never wanted you to go so far protecting me that you put an innocent in danger. Let alone a kid."

Dean would shake his head in turn, but he can still feel Boris's hand holding it steady, although he can't really see the guy anymore. In fact the entire world seems to be going blurry, except Sam. "He's done this before," he whispers. "There's no hope for the kid anyway. I…" The back of his throat burns, but his body is hard pressed to produce a substantial amount of tears. "I can't do it, Sammy. This is the only thing I have left. I have to keep you safe. If I can't do that, what am I?"

"You don't even know if I'm still alive, Dean. Boris said—"

"I don't give a rat's ass what Boris said."

"Dean," Sam says sternly, and repeats, "You _don't_ know if I'm still alive. That kid _is._ He's a certainty, right in front of you. And you're betting his life on this."

Dean stares in despair at the Sam in front of him, but his mind suddenly turns back towards the last Sam he saw that he was sure was real.

Boris is asking him about hunters.

He didn't use any names, but Dean is sure now. He's outed himself. He's exposed his lie.

Sam is alive.

"I do know," he tells Sam, decisively.

Sam gazes at him in deep disappointment, and begins to fade away. Dean is unwilling to watch that, so he closes his eyes and prays that his words make it out into the open air: "Let the kid go."

There's a pause. "You talkin' to me now?"

"Yeah. Let him go, and I'll tell you what you want."

"How 'bout you switch those around." Boris's breath is fading back into existence. Dean could go without that.

He wets his lips, and whispers, "There was a cabin about a mile north and a little east of Pettigrew, Arkansas. Totally under the radar, mostly underground. We'd go there in a jam, or to hide stuff we really needed to stay hidden. Now untie him."

There was something that flickered in Boris's eyes when he said the location—relief. "Nope," he answers promptly. "He's staying right here. Nice little fountain for those among us who have the self-control to leave him alive. And you'll be paying another visit if we find out you were talking out of your ass."

Then at least Dean's bought himself, and this terrified kid, a little time with the lie. Though heaven only knows what he can do with it.

Blessedly, Boris brings him back to his cage, and even leaves him there without feeding him.

* * *

Dean Winchester is gone.

He thinks about him sometimes, idly, like a man he once met in passing. He was strong—at least compared to the husk of a human person wasting away in this cage. He'd never dream of harming an innocent. He was carrying around a lifetime of crap under that devil-may-care façade, and he felt worthless every second of every day, but at least he never let those feelings stop him from doing his job, a job he was damn good at.

It's a shame he's long gone, been replaced by a bloodsucking worm. He wouldn't have wanted to go out like that.

At least he never stopped fighting, for as long as he was able, to protect Sam. That's what it all came down to, really. His number one priority. At least he did everything he could.

Sure, he has regrets. Loads of them. He's probably the world's biggest screwup, but he never stopped trying.

He just wishes he could see Sam one more time before he bites it.

_Pretty sucky euphemism there, Dean._

He snorts softly, the first sound he's made since he was taken from his cage about a day ago. _Bite. Suck. Shoulda been a comedian, instead of a vampire._

* * *

The first time he drifts off after Boris's questioning, Dean finds himself seated on a bench overlooking a hilltop. Cas stands before him.

Dean smiles pleasantly, though there's no energy behind it. "How's it hanging, Cas?"

Cas stares at him, squinting hard like he's trying to see something that's just not there. He does that a lot. "Dean. Where are you?"

Hm. He turns to look over his shoulder, trying to take in more of his surroundings. "Y'know, I'm not sure this is somewhere I've been before—_oh_, if you mean where are they keeping me, I dunno. Been trying to figure that out. Well, I was trying at some point, anyway. Kind of stopped. Doesn't really matter. You definitely took the better route, meeting me here, though. My cage isn't too suited for guests."

Cas looks at him strangely. "Dean… what have they done to you?"

Dean shrugs. "Broke me, pretty much. Didn't even have to put in that much effort, they really just ignore me 99% of the time and feed me the other 1%."

"Feed you," Cas repeats flatly, even as his eyes betray profound sadness.

"Yeah. I've actually yet to drink from any—" and he stops short. This is a dream. This is supposed to be his happy place. He can't go down that road and ruin it. "Anyway, what's new with you?"

"We've been looking for you."

"We?" Dean smiles. "Now, how is Sammy doing?"

Cas's eyes flash. It's strange, and Dean's not sure what to make of it. "Dean… I'm not certain what to ask. We're a bit beyond the classic 'Are you okay?' But all the same… are you okay?"

"Hell yeah, I'm fine, do you see this view?" He gestures at the rolling hills surrounding him. The bench is just here for his convenience—there's not a trace of man anywhere else. It's a beautiful green world under a clear blue sky.

Cas's brow furrows even more deeply. "But it's not real. You're dreaming."

"Yeah, I know, otherwise I couldn't be talking to you. You're not being a very good distraction right now, though, I gotta say. Am I gonna have to call in Sam, or my mom, or… well, someone else?"

"Dean," Cas says firmly, kneeling down in front of him and grasping his shoulders. Dean blinks, unsure where this is going, and finding the touch strange for some reason. "I've been trying to contact you for months. Something's been blocking me from accessing your dreams. We thought now that we've captured the alpha, maybe something had changed, and it has. But we need to make the most of this time. He won't tell us a thing, so do you have any idea, any clues as to where you might be?"

Dean stares at him for the longest time. His grip feels solid. His hallucinations rarely touch him. And they never talk like this.

"C… Cas?" he whispers.

Cas doesn't break eye contact. "It's really me, Dean."

Dean's breath catches in his throat. "Oh my G—" He reaches up to cover his mouth, and halfway through the motion changes his trajectory to reach out with both hands and touch Cas's face. Even though he knows it's all a dream… in some sense, apparently, unless this is just a cruelly vivid hallucination, Cas is really in front of him. "It's you? It's really you."

"Yes. Speak quickly, Dean. Tell me how to find you."

"But—" He swallows. "But I turned. Good and proper. I've drunk human blood, Cas. It's over for me."

Cas shakes his head. "It doesn't matter—we're not leaving you there to rot. Think _hard_. You must have seen _something._ A landmark through the window, a location mentioned by someone in passing, the name of a local organization?"

"I—I'm sorry, but I don't get much in the way of interaction, there's not—wait." The gears in his mind are spinning frantically. "There was a kid. Wearing a school jacket. Mascot was some kind of bear. The… North something?" He strains. "Oh! Northville. Northville bears. Something like that. The colors were green and gold."

"That's exactly the kind of lead we need. Dean, look at me." Dean does. He'd say he's never seen Cas's eyes so intense, but, well, they're usually pretty intense. "We are going to find you. Stay right where you are."

"You got it," he mutters dryly, and with that the world is collapsing around him, and he wakes with a start in the filth of his cage.

* * *

Even later that same day, Dean has trouble conjuring up the details of the conversation, and he quickly begins to doubt that it was real. After all, his hallucinations have seemed very real before—and they never were.

It's too good to be true.

Then again, maybe nothing is too good to be true anymore. Everything is over for him. The best he can hope for is death or some kind of vegetative state.

Boris brings him a bag of blood, not too long after, he thinks, although he's been slipping in and out of consciousness for a while now so maybe it's been longer than it feels. He's vaguely surprised to see him still around, but he figures he needs to stick around to keep running things—he probably just sent some mooks to check things out.

At least it should take them a while to get there. Though for all Dean knows, they're right on top of Pettigrew.

He hopes they're taking decent care of that kid.

* * *

He's lying face-up on the floor of his cage, doing nothing in particular, as his entire life has been going of late, when the sounds of a struggle reach him.

He sits up, eyes drawn towards the door. Most of the occupants of the other cages are looking too. They can all hear it—the sound of metal against metal, the soft _thuds_ of organic objects hitting the floor—a sound he knows all too well. The sound of decapitation.

Something like hope rises in Dean. Maybe he doesn't deserve to feel anything similar to hope, but he does.

And in rushes Sam, brandishing a bloodied machete with red streaked across his face. The first thing Dean feels on seeing him is hunger.

Sam's eyes skim right over Dean. He hasn't been aware these conditions had rendered him so unrecognizable. Sam, though—Sam looks great. Shiny hair, skin practically glowing, eyes focused. Not even any dark shadows under his eyes.

Well, good. Dean's glad to see he's been taking care of himself.

With great effort, Dean lurches to his feet, but almost every fresh vamp in these cages is doing the same. Sam opens the first cage with little effort, charges in, and beheads the girl inside. The rest of them scream, or hiss, in unison.

Through the door through which Sam burst in, Dean glimpses Samuel. He seems to peek inside and then immediately become preoccupied by a vamp jumping him from behind. He struggles with it briefly before they disappear from Dean's sight.

Seeing him only serves to intensify Dean's hunger. He feels his fangs slide into place.

Sam goes to the next cage, and has to spend a little more time getting this one open. After a few seconds, he just jams the hilt of his blade into the lock a few times, breaking it into pieces. He strides through the door as it swings open, and kills the guy trapped inside.

Dean watches, gripping the bars, as he goes down the line. Less than a minute, and only two cages later, he's at the one right next to Dean's. Dean's whole body tenses at the smell of his blood rushing through his body, the sound of his heart pumping it, _ba-bum, ba-bum_. He licks his chapped lips before he catches himself, and once he does, weakly calls, "Sammy."

Sam doesn't acknowledge the locution, and in fact probably just didn't hear it—the head of the girl he's just decapitated hitting the bars of her cage makes an awful racket.

Without stopping, Sam continues on right towards the doors of Dean's cage. He automatically releases the bars he was holding and steps back, all the way back, till he's pressed against the bars behind him—not that there's any real fear that he could hurt Sam, but he has to do what he's always done. Watch out for his little brother.

When Sam destroys the lock that's defined Dean's entire world for an untold amount of time, he wants to drink him dry.

Instead, as Sam rapidly approaches, Dean opens his mouth to say his name again, which he realizes, too late, puts his fangs on full display.

Sam swings the blade.

* * *

~o~o~o~

* * *

Sam stands with Cas at the door to the cage room. Corpses, heads, and blood practically cover the floor. He lost count of his kills after a while, but he's satisfied with a good day's work. He's not had such a productive hunt in some time. He even hears they found and freed a preteen from one of the rooms. Objectively, a rescue incorporated into all these kills makes it even more successful.

Samuel returns to him, pale and shaking. "Dean was in there. He was… emaciated. Looked like he hadn't eaten, bathed, or seen the sun in… well, in the entire time since we saw him last. His fangs… they were still out. He didn't look anything like himself. You couldn't have known, in the midst of the fight."

Sam covers his mouth to avoid feigning an expression, but he still has to plant a knot between his brows, at minimum. "Oh God."

"It wasn't your fault. Sam, look at me." He does, trying his best to produce tears. Samuel is staring into him intensely, looking profoundly mournful himself. "It wasn't your fault. He would have wanted this, anyway. He would understand."

Sam drops his head to his chest as another tactic to give himself a second without faking sorrow. "No," he chokes, and gives himself a mental pat on the back for how convincing that sounded.

He feels Castiel's gaze burning into him. The angel hasn't trusted him for a second since he showed up, all of a sudden willing to work with them to locate Dean. Hopefully now that they've gotten the job done, Sam won't have to deal with his constant scrutiny anymore.

Samuel leaves him then, and Sam sinks to his knees, watching with tears now running down his cheeks as Samuel opens one of the nearest cages, takes the head inside into one arm, and starts dragging the body by the shirt collar with the other hand. He was still wearing the same clothes he had on the night Sam watched him get turned, but now they hang from his body, several sizes too big, and torn and bloodied to boot. His head is just about unrecognizable, pale, with sunken eyes, bloodied lips, and wild hair.

Still. Sam did hear him say his name before he entered his cage.

He just didn't see any reason to stop.

Samuel's right, anyway.

This is what Dean would have wanted.


End file.
